


sun-stepping with my dance shoes on

by chantefable



Series: Beltane Collection [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Family, Gen, Magic, Memories, Secret Identity, Secrets, Spinner's End
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2018-03-22 16:53:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3736483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chantefable/pseuds/chantefable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr Draco Malfoy, currently employed at Mr Drydiggle's Apothecary, pays a visit to the immediate family of a dear friend. Information is communicated, discoveries are made, lives go on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sun-stepping with my dance shoes on

It's a Sunday.

It has been a long week, days blurring together. Weeds, petals, leaves. Ounces, inches, teaspoons. Cauldrons, beakers, bowls. Chop, slice, dice, powder, pour, stir, boil. I often forget when Sunday comes, and walk out of the house as usual, in my old mended boots that are a little too small (bought in my Seventh Year; who knew my feet would still grow?) and well-worn robes with potion splatters along the sleeves. Sometimes I make it a long way into Diagon Alley before I realise I am not due at the Apothecary.

But not today.

Today, I remember it's Sunday. The morning air feels crisp, its briskness lending briskness to my movements, its coolness bathing me in calm. There's clean water, and I heat it to take a proper bath. I do my best to be presentable. I comb my hair; it's getting long, but not as long as my father's had been. As it is, it's difficult to make it into something decent. Still, worth a try.

I have only one pair of breeches, but I put on my nice tunic and the one good set of robes. It's the one I wore to the Wizengamot, and to Pansy's wedding. And to my first meeting with Mr Drydiggle. These robes got me hired at the Apothecary. I choose to think them lucky – 

(The first time I wore them, I pleaded guilty, even though everyone advised me not to. I got a year in Azkaban. My parents left soon after, before their own hearings. Paraguay is not a member of the International Confederation of Wizards. They don't have to fear extradition. I haven't seen them since that day in court.)

– indeed – 

(The second time I wore them was when Pansy invited me to her wedding. That was nice of her. In retrospect, it moves me more than it had then. The groom was tall. She looked brave. Somehow I didn't get to taste the cake. She moved with him to Slovenia and I haven't seen her since. Blaise and Daphne didn't invite me to their weddings.)

– that's as much as I luck out these days.

The shoes are a problem. The only decent shoes I have are my old dancing shoes that I used to wear to the Solstice Balls. They're inappropriate, but they'll have to do.

The sun is streaming down the streets, warming the cobblestones. I have to squint against the brightness as I make my way to The Leaky Cauldron.

It has a public Floo network. I leave the Sickles on the mantelpiece and throw a pinch of powder into the flames as Hannah steadily ignores me, wiping the glasses behind the counter.

I step into the green fire, careful not to get any soot on my clothes as I whisper my destination.

***

I was wrong. The place is much further than I thought. I leave the forlorn wizarding pub having paid for a Butterbeer I did not want and the information I desperately needed. Even the sun seems dimmer here, the hills pale and desolate. It's a long walk, apparently, but it's foolish to Apparate. I could hardly get to an unknown place without Splinching myself. Even if I were using my own wand.

My old wand.

A wand that I used to have.

I used to have a good wand.

It's a long walk. I stick to the path, and the blades of grass stick to the hem of my robes while lumps of soil cling to the soles of my shoes. They're woefully inadequate. Perhaps I should have worn my old boots, after all. But no, I couldn't have. That would have felt wrong. This is not a day like all others. I have to do it right.

There are some things you just have to do. Even when you realise you are most likely to fail. Haven't you learned that well, Draco Malfoy.

The sunbeams hit the grass and it flashes a brighter shade of green, like a magical fire. My calves begin to ache as I walk uphill. I recognise some of the plants on the path. I mince and crush them every day in the Apothecary. Now I crush them underfoot as I get closer and closer to Spinner's End.

I suspect I may well be like a ferret hunting down prey that is too big for him. I most likely am.

I don't care. 

I walk faster, chasing the sunlight as it slithers further along the dormant hills. I've gone too long biting off as much as I could chew.

I just want to know.

***

I finally find the house. It's different than what I imagined. Different from what my mother told me. I wonder if it's the same house, if it's different somehow.

It rises higher than I thought, decrepit and defiant, growing out of the hill like a stubborn tooth.

There's a doorbell, hanging there so desolate as if it were deaf and dumb. I am surprised that it moves when I finally touch it, that it makes a sound.

Its hollow peal seems to be swallowed by the midday sun and the dirty, ragged walls.

I wait on the porch as the house sighs, gives a little shudder, and the thorns and weeds embracing the walls perk up. I brush off my robes, waiting. The silence stretches. I look up. The chimney seems to stand straighter than it had before. The sky is just as blue.

I'm caught off-guard when the door opens. I suddenly think of a beast's gaping mouth and there's a chill running down my spine. It's silly. I straighten my shoulders, keeping my expression pleasant and polite.

The woman in the doorway is not as old as I imagined her to be – then again, what do I know. They say Muggles and Muggleborns age visibly faster than purebloods. But when I walked out of Azkaban, I looked a dozen years older, just like that. 

I search for familiar traits in her face. It must be her. Her eyes are deep set, burning bright like coals. Her hair is black with thick silver streaks, and she wears it loose. It falls almost to her knees. Her robes are grey, old-fashioned. 

She looks like a witch of yore.

I feel relief. Until that moment, I had no idea I feared she might be different – more modern, more Muggle. Unrecognisable. Strange. Not like him at all. But now I see her, and my resolve hardens. I have to do it. I already got this far.

When I open my mouth, I suddenly have no idea what to say. How should I address her? Her maiden name? Her married name? Would that insult her? Should I say Mrs or Ms?

"What do you want?" Her voice cracks like a whip and words tumble out of my mouth before I have the chance to think. Perhaps for the best.

"Good afternoon, Mrs Prince. My name is Draco Malfoy. I – I knew your son a little. May I come in?"

I wonder if she knows how terrified I am that she might say no.

She looks at me, really looks at me for a long minute, then drops her gaze, her mouth set in a hard line. She is already judging me. I stand still, waiting. Then I suddenly become aware of an unfamiliar soreness and wetness and I realise my feet must be bleeding in the shoes.

I stand still, waiting.

"Come in."

***

There's a study on the ground floor, nothing but books and an armchair. A single armchair; no sofa. Mrs Prince takes a seat and conjures a chair out of thin air. Her wand is thick and sturdy, and I am somehow reassured by the fact that the chair is the same.

Actually, that is the best chair I have sat in in a long while.

Mrs Prince won't look at me. For now, she chooses to stare vacantly at the far wall lined with books. I have to stare at the other wall, the one where darker patches of wallpaper indicate the absence of antlers or other pointless artefacts of glory, perhaps stored away, likely sold. 

Had I had any, I certainly would have sold them. The upkeep of this place certainly costs far more than that of my tiny flat.

Strange how it would never have occurred to me to even think of this before.

I wish I had asked for a glass of water. It feels wrong to break the silence now.

"What did you mean when you said you knew my son?"

Immediately, I turn to look at her. She knows; of course she knows. I can see it in the tension that has rearranged the lines in her face and in the heaviness of her gaze. Of course she can tell I must have been one of Severus' students. I have told her my name; she must have known who my father was. He and Severus had been friends. Perhaps she even heard about _me_. I had thought the world of Severus as a child. Mother encouraged his visits. He was my favourite teacher. Maybe he mentioned me. 

I'd like to think I hadn't always been a burden to him.

What did I mean when I said I knew him?

A little. I knew him a little. And yes, I meant more than what she must have already known.

My voice was already hoarse when I began to speak. Still, I wanted to tell her everything, what she must have already known.

I waited so long to tell someone.

***

"What are you talking about?"

Her voice is hard, full of derision. Disbelief. I am thoroughly dismissed. If I didn't have my sore throat and the echo of my own words ringing in my ears for proof, I would have cowered in the face of her conviction. Mrs Prince looks at me like it cannot be.

She looks at me like she is scared.

But I have come to tell her the truth. I believe that she has to know. And I know, unquestionably, what the truth is. So I tell her again that her son was alive after the Battle of Hogwarts.

I tell her that I had found his body, drained and cold to the touch, but he was still alive. And it was magic – really simple restorative magic, a mix of Fifth Year Potions and Seventh Year Charms – that brought him back. That's all it took. I did it. 

I just had to say the words. 

(I often wondered after – if I had forgotten, if I hadn't cared, if I hadn't come – if, Merlin forbid, I had really sucked at Potions – what would have happened? And fear left a stale taste in my mouth. But at the time, I finally felt no fear. There was nothing to be afraid of. I simply had no fear left in me.)

He said he had to leave. And he didn't ask for help. Or demand it. But I did it anyway.

I gave him all the Galleons I had. I brought him all the things I had at Hogwarts – everything of value, things that could be pawned. I fetched the few personal things he had asked for from his rooms – strange things, nothing obvious, nothing to suggest someone took them. One trip to the castle, that's all it took. 

I didn't even see many bodies on the way. I reckon they were already taking them to the Great Hall.

I helped him Apparate after. I didn't know the place. He just needed Side-Along. He told me to go back. And I went.

I don't know what I should have done. Tried to convince him to stay? _Made_ him stay? As if I could ever make him do anything. Perhaps I should have taken him to St Mungo's. Perhaps. I don't know. I knew I couldn't leave, and he chose to. That was it.

In the end, he said, 'Some time after I'm gone, you can find – tell my mother – no, better not. Go back, Draco.'

That was it.

I went back. Went to trial. Went to Azkaban.

Then I walked out and started looking for a job. And then after a while, I started looking for Severus' mother. Frankly, before that night, I didn't know she was alive.

Neither did most of the wizarding world. She resurfaced after Severus' name was cleared. Rita Skeeter wrote a horrid little piece for the Prophet, squeezed next to a huge article hailing Potter's selfless heroism and his quest to award Severus an Order of Merlin. First Class.

Apparently, Potter found it easy enough to love Severus now that he was dead. And so did most people. Who was I to disabuse them of the notion?

So I worked at the Apothecary and kept looking for Mrs Prince. I kept putting it off after I found her, too. I was busy. I wasn't sure.

But then one day, I realised I had to do it. And now here I am.

And I don't think she believes me.

Something clenches in my chest, like a fist squeezing my heart. Once, twice. I struggle to breathe.

She grills me on the details. Very much like Severus in class. She waves things off and then has me repeat them, over and over. I can tell that she's thinking a lot more than she says, but I am not privy to her thoughts.

She must be wondering why he did it, why he didn't contact her, where he is. Whether I'm lying.

I'm not.

But I know that saying that will not convince her.

And when she asks, "Why have you come?" – then I finally run out of words and out of thoughts. I keep clenching and unclenching fists at my sides, feeling as useless and alone as ever.

It's too late now. I cannot walk back to the pub, and Mrs Prince has no Floo access. I will have to stay the night. That's what she says; I insist on walking back. She insists I am talking nonsense.

When I explain that I am going to be late for work, she tells me to use her Owl and warn Mr Drydiggle.

I deflate and acquiesce. I'm too worn out and empty to argue anymore. When I stop putting up a fight, her face changes, too, like a fire flickering. As if she has only just realised what she's done and she didn't mean any of it. 

She doesn't want me here. I don't want to stay, either. Still, we're both keeping up appearances as I pen a very formal and apologetic note to my employer and give it to the tawny owl.

I hope I am not going to be fired over this. But if I am, it is still going to be worth it.

It had to be done. Some stories are meant to be told – or rather, there are stories that some people have to hear.

I watch the evening wrap around the hills like a sombre shawl. I suppose Mrs Prince did not believe me. Not really. I suppose not.

When I finally tear my eyes away from the streaked window pane, Mrs Prince is behind me, pale and tight-lipped like a ghost.

We have dinner in silence.

***

Mrs Prince takes me to the second floor, her gait sure and a little heavy. The stairs creak with my every step, but rise strong and steady when her heels hit them. The carpets also insist I am unwelcome; the one on the landing, long and worn in a shade of maroon, curls like a mouth in contempt and I nearly trip twice.

The snake-shaped doorknob twists even as her hand reaches for it and the door swings open. She prompts me to go inside, but she won't touch me. Her hand makes a strange abortive motion – I'd rather not see that, I'd rather not _live_ that. I just walk in. It's dark. The air is stale. Smells like memories.

It's an old, empty room, nothing but a bed and a chair and a vast stretch of dirty floor.

I don't know why I thought she'd show me Severus' room.

Mrs Prince looks at me, more of a swift sweep over my face than a proper gaze, and nods. In answer to what question, I do not know. She closes the door quickly, as if she were ashamed of my presence. Then everything is quiet. I stand watching the dusty floorboards for a long while until I hear the sound of her steps.

I don't cast a Lumos; I undress in the semi-darkness, content with the moonlight seeping through the blinds, and fold my clothes before placing them on an old chair. It creaks and teeters, one leg shorter than the others. Then I stumble towards the bed and crawl under the sheets. I suspect I'll wake up as rumpled as my clothes are going to be. I probably haven't done a good job of folding them. I probably haven't done a good job of anything so far. I shiver; the sheets are cold.

I lie in the bed that smells of abandonment and neglect and catalogue the way every hair seems to stand up on my body, the way my cheek brushes against the coarse fabric of the pillow, the way my eyes prickle. 

I won't cast a Lumos, I won't light a candle. I'll just lie down for a while, and be alive between one breath and the next.

I have a routine.

***

In the morning, the world is somehow still somnolent. The lines are blurred, the colours muted. As I dress in the pre-dawn light, I feel none of my usual alertness.

Sluggish, I pull on my clothes and hurry down the stairs. The need to leave is sharp like a knife stuck between my ribs. I cannot wait to escape.

I almost stagger with relief when I see Mrs Prince downstairs. She's wearing the same clothes as yesterday. The window in the study is open and the morning chill is creeping in, twining around my still sleep-bound limbs. The window sill is littered with owl treats and Mrs Prince is sitting in the armchair, some loose papers in her lap. Old letters, perhaps.

Mrs Prince doesn't look like she has slept at all.

I tell her I need to leave and she finally shows mercy – doesn't offer me breakfast, sees me out of the house at once. Her eyes are bloodshot, but I imagine they look kinder today.

I leave.

I keep stumbling all the way back. The stubborn dew leaves my feet cold, wet and numb; my shoes are killing me. Damn appearances. My trousers seep up the wetness and cling to my ankles and calves uncomfortably. The morning sun is unexpectedly bright, its rays making me tear up.

As usual, I try not to wonder where Severus is right now. Whether he is still alive – because that is too painful. I hope that he is well, and settled. That he has found the kind of peace he wanted. 

I know he has found the recognition he claimed to want, even though it is posthumous and hypocritical. And even though now I realise I only knew him a little, certainly less than I had thought _before_ , I think he'd find the current hero-worship and glorification of his name nauseating. Not least because it is essentially Potter's last gift to him.

I know I miss him. There are a lot of things I want to tell him now. I like to think that he would find me less unbearable than he must have had.

I don't know whether he would have told Mrs Prince that he was alive. Whether he wanted to, and if so, why didn't he. Some things are a person's alone.

I knew _I_ had to tell her. Now, it's like a huge weight is finally off my shoulders, and everything is bearable again.

I need to get back.

The sunlight spreads in bright golden splotches over the hills as I hurry towards the old pub. Beyond its fragile Floo connection, there's London, the Apothecary, my tiny cheap flat on the edge of Knockturn, and the life I've built for myself.

I walk as fast as I can, and try to think less.

***

The back door gives a harsh creak when I come in. My breath is still unsteady from my earlier brisk walk and my dash back here from the Leaky. For a moment, I am disoriented here, among the dusty crates and rough shelves bent with the weight of archive papers.

Mr Drydiggle appears, in his usual attire, all soothing, unremarkable browns and a white apron. For a moment, I dread he is going to fire me, but he simply gestures for me to follow him. His face is twitching a little, like a nervous tick but somehow different.

There's no one in the front room. The blinds are drawn. My letter is still on the counter, along with a fresh stack of papers and an inkwell. I realise the shop is closed.

Mr Drydiggle's flask is not hanging from his belt as always. I notice it on the counter; it's strange, I have never seen him without it.

The Apothecary is wrapped in crisp, warm silence. A weird kind of anticipation begins to choke me. As if I've come to the right place, only to find it irrevocably transformed.

When I look back at Mr Drydiggle, his face is melting, rippling. Like Polyjuice potion wearing off. His hands are gripping the polished counter and I watch his fingers transform, their shape startlingly familiar. 

I've seen these fingers hold a wand. I've seen them handling beakers and precious ingredients in class, I've seen them holding silverware at the dinner table. I've seen them deadly white and smeared with blood, clutching my wrist.

When I look back up, I know whose face I am going to see.

**the end of the beginning.**


End file.
